User blog:Flamedude22/Resolute: Episode 2: Unemployment Blues
I sat on my small futon in my apartment. The apartment was a cheap one, it was just one room inside, with a bathroom and a kitchenet. The walls were constantly damp, and the celling leaked frequently. My TV was old, and tiny, it rested on two milk crates stack on top of eachother, only about two feet away from the futon. I dialed a number, and put the phone to my ear. "... Uhh... Yeah... Hello. How's it going, George? Yeah. It's me. No. I'm doing alright. Could you do me a huge favor?" I waited a moment "Could you bring me the stuff in my desk? Yeah. Just put it in a box or something. Make sure you get everything." I told him to meet me at that shopping center I had pulled into the other night. I put on a tie, and threw on a coat. I grabbed my keys, my wallet, and my lighter out of habit. I put my .32 in my waistband. I headed out my door, locked it, walked down the hallway, went down the stairs, and out the glass door, into the apartment parking lot. I got in my Camaro and left for the shopping center. George was a beat cop, he had been for a few years, now that I was gone he might get promoted to take my spot. I doubt he liked me, but he would do what he was told. I parked near the middle of the parking lot. The lines that allocated the parking spots were faded so much they were barely visible, while most of the dividers had been destroyed completely, a few remained, but they were broken, and cracked. The sun was bright and hot, it made the faded gray asphalt apear almost white. Cracked from years of use and sun exposure, with no repair. I leaned against the trunk of my car, crossed my arms, and waited, George hadn't arrived yet, although he was on duty. I probably waited only about five minutes, but I was pretty hot, with the sun beating down on me. He parked his squad car about twenty feet away, got out and pulled a battered cardboard box from the passanger seat, and walked towards me. He was a young man, of arab decent. A bit shorter then me. It looked like he was starting to grow out a mustache. "Hey, George." He handed me the box, I set it on the trunk. "How's it going?" He asked, not wanting a real response, as I began looking through the box, to make sure he had put everything in there. "Alright. I'm doing alright." I gave him the answer he wanted. I realized he had just sweeped all the case files on my desk into the box, which wasn't a big deal, it would give me something to do. "So, uhh... You gonna get that promotion?" I said kind of quietly, as I was questionable about making that inquiry. "What?" He asked slightly confused. I replied "Oh, no, nothing. Never mind." and continued to look through the box. My pen, my stapler, a picture of me and my squadmates in the Gulf, that book I never finished, everything seemed to be in order. Then I spotted the crumpled, half empty pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I didn't want them any where near me, I had quit a couple of weeks ago. I pulled them out of the box and held them up to George "Here, you want these?" He responded holding a hand up in front of his chest "I don't smoke." "What about Jackie?" I asked. "No, he only smokes Menthols." He informed me. I set the box in the back seat. George headed towards his car, but turned back to say "We should hang out sometime." only for formality, I knew he didn't want to hang out, or probably ever see me again. It's just what you say. Like when he asked me how I had been, he didn't want a real answer, it was just a greeting, a question of formality. I tossed the pack of Lucky Strikes in the cup holder, and sat in my car, and thought for a while, while George drove off. I reached back and pulled the picture out. Me, Jim, Bernie, Wallace, and - Category:Blog posts